


Difficult to Serve

by PrideGifts (Laeviss)



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft - Various Authors
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Boss/Employee Relationship, Dom/sub, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:16:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25919446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laeviss/pseuds/PrideGifts
Summary: Varian Wrynn is a difficult king to serve, but his spymaster finds satisfaction in the challenge.
Relationships: Garrosh Hellscream/Varian Wrynn Implied, Mathias Shaw/Edwin VanCleef Implied, Mathias Shaw/Varian Wrynn
Comments: 10
Kudos: 23





	Difficult to Serve

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sludgemiser](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sludgemiser/gifts).



The spymaster stood in the doorway with a box of scrolls perched in his arms, but for a moment the king didn’t acknowledge him. Clearing his throat, he waited. Varian swiped his quill in a series of jagged strokes along the bottom edge of the parchment before him, then pushed it aside, raising his head to reveal a face cast in shadows. Deep lines creased the space between his brows.

Shaw willed any reaction from his face. With a slight bow, he stepped forward and set the package on the corner of his desk. The scrolls inside rolled, their wax seals knocking together. “Missives from Astranaar,” he explained. From the way Varian’s lips pursed at the words, he didn’t need to add anything further. 

“Leave them,” the king waved dismissively. He paid the box a glance, then turned his eyes on a bottle at the opposite edge of the table. The amber liquid within glimmered, catching a flicker of light from the oil lamp in the corner. Shaw expected him to reach for it, but his hand fell, instead, upon the letter he had just finished. 

He rolled it and clenched his hand around its middle where his seal should have been pressed, passing it off to Shaw without turning to him. “My formal recognition of the Horde’s change in leadership,” his upper lip curled as he clarified, “Don’t waste good ribbon sealing it.”

“Understood, your Majesty.” The spymaster nodded. He tucked the letter in the satchel he wore on his hip, then straightened, poised for any further command.

When Varian said nothing, the spymaster prompted, “Should we mail it to one of our contacts in Orgrimmar, or would you prefer we deliver it to Garrosh directly?”

At the sound of the new Warchief’s name, Varian stiffened. His nails dug into the palm of his hand and his forearm bulged beneath his white silk undershirt. “Whatever you think is best,” he muttered between clenched teeth. “Just get it over with. We have more pressing matters than playing nice with the Horde.”

“Indeed, we do,” Shaw agreed, expecting that they’d leave it at that. He took a step to the side, and then Varian’s chair creaked, squealing as it skidded an inch or two back from his desk. 

“And while you’re at it,” the king spat, his features contorting in a wolfish snarl pregnant with the power of his alter. “You can tell Thrall his invitation to Stormwind has been revoked until he explains his choice, until he proves to us this isn’t an open declaration of war.”

Shaw watched him with a raised brow, staying silent a few moments after Varian’s sputtering ceased. The king’s voice strained to form the final few words; his breath hitched as they hung in the air. Some other concern lurked, rippling Varian's expression as if thrashing in the depths of his chest, but Shaw knew better than to inquire about it.

Instead, he tucked his chin to his collar and inclined forward. “Yes, your Majesty.” By any luck, the king would sober up, mull over his feelings, and withdraw his command in the morning, but until then the spymaster wouldn’t voice his concerns.

He clicked his heels and circled around the desk, heading towards the door through which he had entered. Behind him, paper crinkled and crunched, a glass tinked, and the wooden chair let out another low groan. He wrapped his fingers around the knob but didn’t twist it. Inhaling, then exhaling, he waited for the clamor to still, but when it didn’t, he glanced over his shoulder.

“Your Majesty?”

“Come here,” Varian slurred. 

Shaw nodded and turned. The king twisted his chair to the side and now with his legs outstretched, knees bent, and the drawstrings of his linen pants dangling between his thighs. His lips remained tightly drawn, but his gray eyes glittered in the lamplight, and the shadows no longer cast his features in such sharp relief. 

Approaching, the spymaster sucked down a breath. The king’s shoulders had risen an inch or two up the blue velvet back of his chair, and his clenched hands had engulfed the carved lions at both ends of his armrests. Even in an untucked undershirt and a pair of night breeches, he cut the figure of a monarch upon a throne. Shaw’s pulse quickened beneath his collar. 

Varian stared at him for a moment, then gestured to the stretch of floor that separated them, muttering, simply, “Kneel.”

Shaw stepped forward. He bent his front leg and swung it back to join the shin already pressed against the wood. The soles of his leather boots pointed upwards as he bore down his weight upon his kneecaps. Pain shot up his thighs, but he bit back a grimace. 

At first, the king didn’t make a sound. Finally, he flicked his tongue against the back of his front teeth, slouching, and crossing his arms over his chest. The lines of his pecs drew together beneath the thin fabric that covered them, and a tuft of hair peeked out from his v-shaped neckline. 

Shaw’s mouth went dry. When his gaze returned to Varian’s face, he found the faintest trace of a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. It sent the blood rushing to the spymaster’s head: a blush that bloomed on his cheeks and inched to the tips of his ears. 

It spread down the back of his neck and pooled in the pit of his stomach. His cock twitched against the tight laces of his leather pants, and though the king’s hungry stare promised him no relief, that denial itself left him aching. 

He inclined his head in the king’s direction. Varian caught his goatee between his fingers and tugged, then looked down pointedly at his dangling drawstrings. A bulge tented the fabric between them.

“Touch me,” the king commanded. 

Shaw nodded, shuffling forward a pace or two and reaching for the ivory button below his waistband. “Yes, sir.” His tongue grew heavy in his mouth as he pronounced the words. He pursed, then wet his lips. 

“Good,” Varian growled. Cupping his cock through his pants, the spymaster squeezed and eased his head from his fly. He wrapped his fingers around his shaft, and with a stroke brought the rest of him into the open. The king twitched, flushing and hardening against the heel of his palm.

Satisfied with this evidence of his king’s pleasure, Shaw cupped his hand over the tip, then stroked to the nest of hair peeking out from his pants. Varian let out a groan that vibrated down to his lower abdomen. His muscles clenched, his hips tightening as his thighs fell open. 

Shifting his weight and curling his toes behind him, the spymaster straightened, the ache in his knees forgotten. He stared into the king’s scarred face and rubbed his head with the pad of his thumb. The groan that rose to Varian’s lips made his heart clench and his chest swell with pride.

Varian uncrossed his arms and pressed his hand against Shaw’s cheek. The spymaster’s polished visage nearly shattered. “Use your mouth,” the king muttered, tightening his grip on Shaw’s jaw. “I want to feel your tongue.”

“Yes, sir.” Drawing back his shoulders and clenching his teeth, the spymaster swallowed any thoughts of leaning into the other man’s calloused touch. He lowered his gaze, instead, to the cock in his hand, swollen and wet with the sheen of pre-cum along its slit. Licking his lips, he dipped forward. The side of his hand pressed against the linen fly of the king’s pants and his fingers tightened around him.

He swirled his tongue around his head, then replaced his tongue with his mouth and sucked. Varian arched his neck against the crest of the chair. His ponytail spilled over the rail as he lifted his gaze above the top of Shaw’s head. His eyes unfocused. The hand he had pressed to Shaw’s cheek returned, instead, to the lion armrest beside his face, clenching and digging into its grooves.

Want tugged at the corners of Shaw’s heart, but he furrowed his brow and focused. Relaxing his jaw, he swallowed, gaining an inch or two, before tightening his lips and sliding back. The next time he sucked, the king’s head nudged the back of his throat. The muscles in his neck tightened to stave off a spasm. He closed his eyes, taking note of the man’s musk and the way his shaft throbbed as he dragged it back along his tongue. 

Caught up in his king’s smell and taste, he didn’t realize he was being addressed until he felt the other man’s fingers temple against the back of his head. “More,” Varian repeated. The spymaster’s eyes shot open, and he glanced up with the tip of his cock still pressed to his lips. 

He caught a hint of disapproval curling at the corner of the king’s mouth; his pulse quickened in his ears. Lowering his gaze, he nodded. His breath hitched as he repeated, “Yes, sir.”

With a gratified ‘hm,’ Varian relaxed his grip on the nape of his neck. Summoning every bit of experience he had, Shaw swallowed the spittle that had gathered at the tip of his tongue, then swallowed the lump that had caught in his throat. It was the king’s cock he swallowed next. His mouth surrounded him and accepted him into the back of his mouth. 

He didn’t pause until the end of his nose knocked against the king's pants button. Even so, he only stopped to remind himself to relax before sliding back, drawing in a breath, and swallowing the king more deeply.

This time, Varian moaned. The low rumble shook Shaw down to his core. His own neglected cock strained against the front of his breeches, but he merely clenched his thighs and knit his brows together in concentration. 

His mustache tickled the base of the king’s shaft, drawing out a quiver. He let the hitches in his breath set his pace. Gripping and sucking and finding a rhythm, he studied the tone of Varian's voice, the way he murmured on the heels of a sigh: “Good.”

_So obedient._

A face rose, unbidden, to the front of the spymaster’s mind. Black hair swaying on either side of a red bandanna, and sharp green eyes narrowing above two pallid cheeks. He couldn’t see the man’s sneer, but he felt it in the hiss in his breath and his enunciation, calculated and keen, when he muttered, ‘Mathias.’

_Groveling before the king like a dog. What’s become of you now, Mathias?_

Shame wrapped its cold fingers around Shaw’s heart and tugged. The blood drained from his cheeks. But even as his shoulders clenched, Varian grabbed the back of his head and pressed him forward. His cock twitched, and he came hot against the back of Shaw’s throat. The spymaster scrambled to swallow, clenching his hand around the base of his shaft to keep it steady. 

Squeezing closed his eyes, he fought the whispers nagging at every edge of his thoughts. Sucking, then sliding back, he lifted his gaze to find the king staring, once more, at some point behind him. Shaw suspected he looked to his dresser where he had abandoned the memo notifying him of Garrosh’s ascension.

Licking the salty cum from his lips, Shaw tucked the king’s cock into his pants, and then splayed his palms on the floor on either side of his knees. He pushed his body up, dusted off, and ignored the bulge straining against his leather laces. “Anything else, your Majesty?” He whispered in a voice still ragged with the strain his throat had endured. Varian shook his head. His hand had already returned to the whiskey at the corner of his desk. 

Righting the satchel on his hip and inclining his head towards the king, Shaw stepped around the table, crossed the room, tugged open the door, and disappeared into the shadows, with the memory of two faces still held in the front of his mind.


End file.
